Can You Feel the Gravity?
by NegativeSpaces
Summary: In the halls of Lima, fame and fortune are sacred words. Santana knows this all too well, and realizes her own key could lie in new coach and dancer Brittany Pierce. She thinks it'll be easy, but sometimes fate has other plans. Brittana, AU, G!P.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first delve into the smut side of things.

Based off this prompt: Sue Sylvester has finally retired from McKinley, leaving one of her former star cheerleaders as the new head coach, Brittany S. Pierce.

Brittany's just moved back to Lima after several years of starring in music videos and dancing backup for superstars in world tours, and freshman Cheerio Santana couldn't be more eager to get close to the new coach. She's hot, she's sexy, she's successful, and Santana isn't shy about doing anything she can to beat out her classmate, Quinn, for the captainship next year.

Santana flirts with Brittany for several weeks, but doesn't get anywhere. Finally, she invites herself into Brittany's office, kneels in front of her, and asks Britt if she's available for some "extra practice." Britt's majorly turned on, but warns Santana that she's "different" down there.

So basically this will involve ageplay, sizekink as per request of OP, and much G!P. I've never actually written G!P before, so let me know if anything's off. Again, casting around for a Beta if anybody's willing.

.:-:.

Eyes narrowed into almost-slits, it's difficult to fight the onslaught of memories as she watches the mass of redwhite uniforms against the glare of the sun. Each wheezing breath and flex of muscle vibrates in her own body, phantom sweat trickling down her skin as the figures below strain to achieve better than the last practice. The megaphone is foreign in Brittany's hand but she grasps it tightly, pale tongue darting out to relieve her lips from the wet summer heat.

.:-:.

_"Well, Pierce. I never thought I'd actually see you back in this cowtown." Coach Sylvester took off her glasses and eyed her former cheerleader with a critical mindset. The five years gone had been good to Brittany - her skin was darker, her hair thicker and her eyes brighter. From under the simple tank top she sported, one could clearly see the defined lines of sleek muscle lining her frame that rippled whenever she shifted her weight. They met gazes and her smile was just as large as she remembered - open, inviting, just a bit mischievous. The large braid slung over her shoulder shone in the bright, expensive lighting and Coach saw the absence of a ring around her finger with little surprise. She'd always been a free spirit, unable to be tied down. _

_ In turn she perched on the edge of a plush arm chair and revelled at how, even years later and free from her oppressive grip, that icy stare still had the capability to make her uncomfortable in the strangest ways. Though her hair was lighter and her face more aged, Sue still carried with her a kind of angry power that rolled off in waves - yet now she knew better than to fight the tide. "What can I say, Coach? It's your winning personality that brought me back."_

_ A flicker of a smile flitted over the older woman's lips before she stood up, clasping her hands behind her back and surveying her well-won trophies. Her life could be measured out in medals, polished metal that left her feeling both empty and fulfilled at once. The great Sue Sylvester had no intention of dying in the next few centuries (and if she was to be honest, whipping a bunch of sorry excuses for human beings into top-grade athletes bloated her with pride) but her repertoire was growing too expansive for her to haul around. Imelda would murder her with her eyes if she brought home another trophy for her already overflowing house._

_ "Why did you come back?" She was never under the illusion that Brittany would be chained here. Even if her grades were below average and she daily confused the people around her, there was a fire inside punctuated by the smoothest moving body she'd ever seen. Stadiums would get up after seeing Brittany create perfection on stage, face flushed and chest heaving with a smile that could split the stars. She even created exceptions for her (and Sue __hated__ exceptions), like letting her avoid the weights because she'd put on way too much muscle too fast, or funding for a few pairs of expensive spanks to tuck away what hid under those seductive skirts. "Your career was taking off, and you had a good life out in New York."_

_ Brittany shrugged and ran a finger along the crafted oak desk, remembering the polish from countless tirades endured within these walls that always ended becoming stronger than who she was the day before. She liked to think that it was because of Sue that she carried the determination others lacked, focusing through the aching pain of stretched muscles and the stares from people who never thought she'd be good enough. "I've been around the world with amazing names, amazing people. I've been blessed with some of the best five years anybody could ask for. I even got to do what I loved as a way to pay the bills. Who else can say that?"_

_ Her razored tongue lifted but didn't speak, letting the blonde weave words into sentences like she never used to be able to."But the doctor said that if I keep going the way I do, my knee's going to give out," she stated sadly, touching her right leg almost as if it would splinter. "so I need to be careful. Giving it a few years to heal fully would let me go back instead of stopping me forever. And even though everybody just wants to get out of here, I loved being in high school and in the Cheerios." A small smirk, glint of playful blue eyes that Coach knew so well. "It gave me something to whine about."_

_ This time Sue did snort, traced the veins littering Brittany's sun kissed skin like a roadmap. She was so much more than she ever could have hoped and it was that pride that called her at six in the morning on a Saturday, offering up something she thought she'd keep with her until the grave. _

_ "But why me? Why not Tiffany or Karla? They had just as many wins as I did, but a bigger troupe." _

_ Sue turned back to the window, slanting her gaze against the scorching summer sun. She'd come to think of life in terms of seasons, of birth and regrowth and ultimate death that came along with the first whispersoft sigh of a snowfall. Brittany was the breath of renewal that these hallways needed, a spring in her step and wide eyes concealing the relentless worker and unforgiving leader she knew hid underneath that once porcelain skin. "Because you were always my favourite. I knew you'd never fail me - and you never did."_

_ And when Brittany smiled; slow, full to bursting, Sue felt just a little bit warmer herself._

.:-:.

"Sandra, I see you trying to shift the weight over to Quinn. You'll go back into position if you have any hope of staying on the squad." Sue had remained for a month, sculpting her into what the teenagers needed for a national win. Tryouts had already come and gone and under the old Coach's watchful eye the dancer had run them into the ground, able to sound both encouraging and brutal at once. After a final, terrifying speech that even had Brittany shrinking away in bittersweet remembrance, she had embraced her hard, wished her luck and marched out of the school as sharply as she always came. It was symbolic in a way she tried not to think about, so instead she had turned to the gawking cheerleaders and ushered them back into formation.

Brittany passes the back of her hand over her forehead and huffs into the sweltering heat, shifting her hips uncomfortably as the fabric clung to her skin. She'd forgotten how hot the Midwest got in the summer, watching how the sweat rolled off the bodies of the suffering teenagers below. They form a pyramid and her eyes are drawn to the form at the top, all tanned skin and raven hair with a jaw tense from swallowing complaints and fatigue. Instead of breaking them up she pushes away her pity and raises the megaphone, peering down with critical eyes. "Julie, straighten those arms. You're going to drop her when she jumps. Okay, Santana. Go."

Her muscles tremble slightly from the strain of constantly keeping herself upright but for a second their gazes lock and she seems to unfurl, straightening her spine and earning a strange glint that she can't decipher from so far out. Their flier was out with a broken ankle, and Brittany was quick to choose the smallest girl who didn't seem like she'd back down from a challenge. She didn't miss the triumphant smirk in Quinn's direction, however, nor the scowl that bloomed prettily across the blonde's face.

She holds her breath as every part of Santana's body seems to tense, bracing herself against the moving arms of her teammates. A flash of panic in her eyes but all of a sudden she's airborne, flipping back and twisting like she'd been taught. The technique is crude and unpolished but she sees potential for talent, hidden in the stiff locking of her joints as nothing but air brushes against the dark skin. Her arms outstretch and it seems like she eclipses the sun, face drawn into a mask that resides somewhere between exhilarated concentration and pure terror. All of a sudden it's over and she lands forcefully within the embrace of the girls below, air knocked from her lungs as her hands clench into fists to stop their shaking.

Satisfied, Brittany nods to herself and shifts again under the unrelenting sun. "Good! All of you take a break, I expect to have you back in five!"

.:-:.

Santana doesn't think she's ever been more tired in her life.

It's not just an exhaustion that can be pushed back after a few minutes rest. It seeps down to her bones and chews at her muscles until they tremble, squinting her eyes and slicking her skin. Regionals are on the way (according to Coach Sue, that's when they can show they're more than worthless bags of skin like the rest of the general populace) and Coach Pierce is determined to break them. She hears the answering call on each wheeze of her teammates' breaths, how the sweat has stained Quinn's hair a dark gold. Her jaw's dropped to let in air with less difficultly, never enough to appease her starving lungs. She still remembers the thrill of flying, and shudders as her muscles tense up in paralyzed excitement.

All in all, she doesn't think she'll be able to move for a week. But judging from the varying degrees of pain plastered all over these pretty faces that surround her, she isn't alone. From way up top, Pierce runs her hand through her ponytail and grimaces at the sweat that clings to her no-longer-porcelain skin, already turning a darker shade after readjusting to the sweltering Midwestern sun. She tracks the way she moves effortlessly even in her discomfort, each ripple of lean, sinuous muscle an alluring invitation. From the very first moment she stepped foot into McKinley grounds, she's had the school in her palm. The tales she's woven of Beyonce and Lady Gaga were enough to captivate the students, but it's the way she _moves_ that speaks to the cheerleaders. It tells stories of fame and talent and determination, nights spent without sleep for just one more spin, one more jump. Her whole life has things they need in order to beat out the rest and make Coach Sylvester proud.

She's the embodiment of everything Santana wants. Popularity, money, experience. But more than anything, the chance to make it out of this town and _do _something with herself, never held back by the regrets she's yet to make.

Quinn jogs up to her with a flush to her cheeks; she's gorgeous in the way glass roses are beautiful - seemingly delicate, but still possessing a lethal edge. They've been friends since they've come out of the womb, trading insults and gossip that have gotten more and more acidic as they honed their craft. To the outside world it's impossible they could even exist in the same space, but somehow they make it work.

"Whatever you're thinking of, don't do it." The blonde warns, eyes sharp as she tracks the darker girl's vision. She's grown accustomed to Santana's various plots over the years, each one more scheming than the last. The way her smile pulls in - predatory, cunning - and her eyes glitter never mean anything good for anybody (but her).

Santana's fingers flex by her sides but the curl to her lips is now positively filthy, all calculating stares and a flash of bright teeth that Quinn knows all too well. "You know, Q," she drawls, voice purring over the letters. "I'm sure my high school resume would look really great if I was captain next year."

The shorter blonde frowns, glancing back up to the coach for a moment before coming back down. It's been a silent battle between them - who can push the hardest, go the farthest so that Coach Pierce would take attention to them. A captaincy at sophomore year would add a massive boost in getting out of this dead end town filled with burnt-out rockstars and babies born too early. But why bring things out in the open so they can be twisted and warped and hopelessly mangled?

"Mine too." she states warily, trying in vain to shake out the kinks in her muscles. "What are you getting at, Satan?"

The shift to look at her is coy, dark; she sees how Santana's eyes have deepened to near-black when helplessly lost in the cacophony of her own thoughts. Everything about her is loud - from her angry words to the way a simple glance speaks of the chaos bounding around in her skull. If you'd try to define her she'd be a hurricane more than a flood: the whirlwind of her actions equated only by the devastation left in her wake. "Oh, nothing. I've just done my homework."

.:-:.

Quinn nearly sputters on her water-bottle when Santana purposely trails her fingernails across the swath of Pierce's hip with a sly smirk that speaks of countless ideals best left for the haven of privacy. "Hey _Coach,_" her syllables come out raspy and deep, scraping up her vocal chords to escape plump lips intent on caressing every word. "tough practice today. You enjoy seeing us sweat?"

Two sets of blonde eyebrows travel upwards for different reasons, cerulean blue studying her face with a slight uptilt of lips before shaking her head and continuing onwards. "I enjoy winning. Winning makes you sweat. And besides, the lazy duck's never caught the worm." Santana blinks slightly, seduction falling from her face to be overtaken by momentary confusion. Brittany smiles at Quinn and nods, helplessly letting the mischief splay all over her lips when she catches another glimpse at Santana's expression. They watch her go, whistling to herself until her sharp steps round the corner. As soon as she's out of earshot, Quinn rounds on her with a voice like thunder and eyes just as loud.

"What the hell was that?" she snarls, arms flailing wordlessly even as her body swells with indignation. She'd never been the one versed in the ways of allure, content to trail boys along and drop them when things started getting serious. It was Santana with the magic hands, crawling down inside shorts and tweaking their pride with an expert flick of her wrist.

"What do you think it was?" Santana hums, looking off into the distance. Her intent had been clear but the response was lacking - nothing more than an amused quirk of mouth and a deflection.

"B-but... she's a _girl_." Maybe it's wrong she's thinking in terms of gender opposed to age, but the cross around her neck almost sears her skin at the thought.

However, Santana turns on her then; lips bared into a mocking sneer, eyes narrowed and cold. It's these times when they could tear the world apart if they wanted, words flying so sharp it could cut through the very center of the earth. "And? It's the twenty first century, Fabray. Things like this happen." A quiet smirk, eyes holding secrets. "More often than you'd think."

It times perfectly and Quinn's scandalized gasp is one she'll hold in memory for a very long time. "You haven't!"

"Hey, the guys like it. And we can be damn good kissers, you know. So soft but violent."

The colour flooding her cheeks is not anticipated - flashes of dark nails raking across taut skin, black and blonde mixing together as Santana reaches in to devour somebody that looks suspiciously familiar. Those blue eyes seem to smoulder, looking back at Quinn questioningly as if trying to test her faith. With herucelean effort she yanks herself back, away from the moans and sensations vibrating so loud inside her own head. Santana looks at her with an arched eyebrow and crossed arms, almost knowing. Quinn would never go to the lengths she's prepared to dwell, not for the sake of popularity.

(Deep inside, the darker girl wants to understand the pull of soft skin under her tongue, the heavy weight of heaving breasts in her hands as she makes music from a living instrument. It's so primal and raw that it terrifies her, and she shoves it so very far down it can't see the light of day.)

"I believe you," Quinn mumbles, body buzzing with tension. "I really do."

.:-:.

Night had fallen upon Lima when Brittany finally walked back into her apartment. The moon casts shadows upon one half of her face but she relishes the darkness, craves the feeling of anonymity it gives. Her feet make no noise when she tosses her keys down and huffs out a long-suffering breath, still feeling the sweat against her skin in a nostalgic re-enactment of her teenaged years. She glances outside at how the streets were silent save for the whispers of the trees murmuring secrets to one another, brushing leaves against leaves in the most tender of lover's touches. Somewhere inside the house her cat announces his presence, loud against the silence.

She's alone.

The feeling comes strangely for the dancer, always used to sleeping in packed hotels with many other fleshy bodies to steal the warmth from - the rhythm of their breathing lulling her into a deep sleep after a night of moving until their limbs gave out, blinded by the stage lights and their own excitement. She tugs her hair from the ponytail she'd pulled it into, running her fingers through the tangled locks and grimacing at the tug. Bidding hello to Lord Tubbington the Second (he had the soul of a fat, what could she say?) Brittany walked herself into the bathroom, nudging the door closed with her hip.

As her fingers seek the hem of her shirt, she studies herself in the mirror. Even after a day stuck in the burning heat of Ohio, her eyes still sparkle out through the shadows playing tag along the strong curve of her jaw. She grins experimentally, widening into a real smile once her teeth flash out from the gloom. All the muscles of her arms ripple in unison as the top goes up over her head, exposing small breasts with a toned midsection and layered shoulders to make up for their lack.

She's never been shy about her appearance. She's paid to make art with her body and that's what she does, moving until she becomes her dance, her music. Everything about her is a sculpture, a photo - how her back arches when she removes her pants, the serpentine coil of her spine slithering from the base of her neck down to her rear. Her shoulderblades that look like wings, stark against the muscled expanse of her side. When her ribs appear from under the skin as she takes in a long breath, relieved as her thumbs drag down the compression shorts hidden away under tight jeans and years of practice.

The blonde looks in the mirror again and traces herself down from her feline eyes, tracing the intimate constellations of her skin until she reaches the juncture between her legs. One hand goes out, piano fingers crawling over to gently cup the cock and the testicles that reside within her abdomen.

_ (Shortly after donning her the title of captain, Brittany had stumbled into her office with an awkward gait and bright red cheeks. She wasn't wearing her Cheerios uniform and the easy grace she possessed was gone, betrayed by the twitching of her fingers and how she left teeth marks on her lower lip. Coach had raised her eyes above her glasses and promptly demanded why she was looking like "a hobo with a fetish problem", confused further when her best cheerleader seemed to turn crimson from the curl of her ears to the strong spread of her collarbone. _

_ "I, um, I can't do practice today." She'd mumbled, confidence lurking away somewhere where this wasn't all quite so awkward._

_ "And why's that?" _

_ A beat of silence. Sue scowled. "Out with it, Doris Day."_

_ "It won't go away!" If possible, her whole body flushed and she curled in on herself, eyes glinting wetly in the light. Sue's eyebrows hit her hairline and she settled her pen down to her trusty journal, leaning back to take in the baggy sweatpants and simple top. "What won't?"_

_ Brittany's hands flapped awkwardly in the air, ponytail whipping about her face. "T-the.. the..." At a loss for words she simply scrunched up her face and tugged her pants taut against her thighs. It took the coach a few seconds, but after a momentary confusion she could spy a large bulge protruding out from the fabric of her clothes. Her mouth opened a few times but nothing chose to come out, only spurring herself back into action as the creased clothing once again hid what looked like a painful erection from view._

_ "Pierce, is that...?" The younger blonde nodded hesitantly and felt her face flame even brighter, hunching her shoulders and sticking her hands into her pockets. There was a second's urge to sneak further and grasp the throbbing shaft, but the mortification from this situation kept her from trying a solution she already knew didn't work. "I don't follow this new development. The twins on your ribcage look pretty real to me."_

_ One hand raised to wipe away the budding tears, scratching at the back of her neck and shifting uncomfortably on the spot. "I-I'm outer- um, intersexual. I choose to identify as female because that's who I feel like I am - I like doing girly things even though motocross is basically the best thing ever - but I only have a guy set down there," she gestured helplessly to her hips and shrugged "and it works." Sue grimaced and raised her hand to rub the bridge of her nose, already wheeling through questions in her head with a terrifying speed. Why didn't she know? How did she keep it under wraps so well? Is that why her muscles are so much more defined than all the other girl's? If she thinks back, she's never seen her in the showers at the same time as the rest of the team._

_ "Let me tell you how it's going to be," she starts, scaring Brittany who had been staring nervously at the floor for what seemed like a small eternity. "you're going to go to the team and tell Theresa that she's in charge today because you don't feel well. After that, you're going to go home where you will stay until you are fit enough to be captain and fill out your responsibilities. When you come to school tomorrow, there will be a few special pairs of spankies in your locker that will help contain your... issue." _

_ "Coach, those are-"_

_ "Expensive, I know. I'll take care of it. Now, Brittany?" The other blonde looked up, cheeks still pink but a grateful smile along her lips. "Get the hell out of my office.")_

Her hands stroke the angry red lines around her waist, twisting her hips in an effort to rid herself of the lingering discomfort. With the relentless water from the shower comes a soothing balm, pounding away on the knotted muscles and dented skin. They were top-notch, even able to push away her unconventional pieces to whatever crazy costumes she had to wear, but always so tight it felt like she was being carved out from the abdomen.

She had many of those experiences over her high school years, amazed at how many things she could do without worrying whether or not she was showing. She toiled away alongside her other Cheerios, skin slick and glistening as they worked for a dictator who would never be satisfied.

_Hey Coach, tough practice today. You enjoy seeing us sweat?_

Brittany's eyes snap open and she guiltily flinches away from the shower, stopping the flow and stepping out of the stall. Not bothering to put on any clothes, she dries herself and trots back to her bedroom, muscles already singing of an exhaustion born from few hours of sleep and lack of protection underneath the burning sun.

Yet as she winds herself in the cool blankets, her mind keeps going back to that one phrase. With it comes a glimpse of chocolate eyes and a voice as smooth as silk, but rough around the edges in a way that pleases more than it hurts. She _had_ been watching Santana today, the bunching of well-made muscles under her skin and how she drew a firm bottom lip between her teeth. The memory of her nails burn every so slightly, along with a sultry stare a girl her age shouldn't know how to make.

But that's all it is, right? A memory? It's what Brittany placates herself with as her right hand snakes down to trace patterns over her inner thighs, left already stroking with firm swipes over a hardening nipple. It's been too long since she's touched herself, evident at how her cock twitches eagerly and begins to stiffen at the smallest inclination. She feels the familiar coiling in her belly, a slow burn that tingles down to the tips of her toes. Her fingers skirt around her addition, sucking in a sharp breath as she tweaks the pink nipple and feels the pleasure shockwave down to her core, where it manifests as an erection slowly raising proudly into the air.

Not wanting to deny herself any longer, so firmly grasps the shaft and bucks into herself. Her hand strokes languorously at first, a long swipe of her tongue helping her palm glide along her length. Though the pressure is delicious and tempting, her mind unconsciously strays once again to the young Cheerio - it almost startles the dancer at how thick she becomes at the thought of Santana sitting there with hungry eyes and wet lips. She lets the thought of tanned skin and seeking hands guide her, pumping vigorously with an energy she didn't have several moments ago. Her thumb circles the tip and coats her cock with the precum that dribbles out, fist slick and effortless. _This _was enough. She couldn't lead the girl on with the notion she'd fall so easily to her charms. No, Brittany Pierce was the one that made the others beg.

She groans as her pace increases, twisting once her clenched hand hits her pelvis before making the return trip. Her dick is burning, swelling with the release that's beginning to hover around the horizon. Two fingers mercilessly pinch an abused nipple, scraping her nails down her own skin just to feel the sting as her fist loosens to stroke the sensitive underside of her cock, more precum leaking out of the head to coat her inner thighs.

Brittany's seen her looking. Of that, there's no doubt. Eyes connected in the hallway and smiles that never went beyond light and flirting. There's a lot to look at - her own gaze takes in the abs clenching in an attempt to hold off her orgasm even as her shaft twitches in her hand. Santana didn't seem the type to try and sway the female population, but there's so much you can hide under a flawless facade and years of pretending.

"Oh, f-fuck..." hisses the dancer, lust replacing blood in her veins. Her cheeks flush as she closes her eyes, hand spasming as her hips begin to pump into her closed fist in an effort to get more friction. Her muscles tense and she digs her heels into the sheets, hair sticking to her neck as the steady _thwap_ of skin hitting skin becomes a crescendo alongside her muffled gasps and moans. Everything's on auto-pilot now; the rapid jerk of her arm, the drop of her jaw, the arch of her back as she squeezes roughly against her own breast. Pictures sear through her mind but then it's gone, replaced by a white-hot rush that has her crying out into the dark.

Brittany feels her come splatter against her heaving chest as the arousal explodes from the pit of her stomach, coursing outwards in a messy display of perfection. Her hips jump into her white-knuckled grip, the stench of sex and sweat beginning to mix into the once pristine air. Her eyes clench shut as she empties herself, not caring that the sticky liquid has rolled onto the bedspread and is making patterns on her skin. She rides the waves for as long as possible, firmly stroking her cock until the tremors cease and she falls back into the pillows, exhausted. One hand lazily crawls up her chest to smear the milky liquid into her skin, a contented smile curling along her lips even as she sucks two fingers into her mouth.

Looking up, she makes a resolution to not be the one to force anything. They're treading on a thin line here -whatever game Santana's playing, she'll have to work for it. She snickers to herself, looking down at her sticky cock and dirty body.

"I think I need another shower."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This chapter is a whole lot of sexual tension and set-up. I'm sorry for making you wait so long with minimal development, but I assure you next chapter will hold some... interesting surprises for Santana.

On a seperate note, I'm on Brittana nirvana from last night. Can I just stay here and sigh happily until I die?

.:-:.

It takes all her concentration not to fall over when a slam echoes through the quiet gymnasium, disturbing the cocoon of silence made once her earbuds fell from her head. Brittany grits her teeth against the burning in her arms and straightens out her elbows again, back curving into a perfect arch so that the soles of her feet come dangerously close to her head. The perspective of the world is skewed, but from her upside down position she sees a pair of heavy-set legs thumping towards her, high socks and shorts tied by a set of clean looking Adidas athletic shoes. Brittany hisses out a strained breath but manages a smile.

"Hiya, Coach Beiste." There's a noise of acknowledgement and surprise from above her, white feet circling around her reversed form slowly, like looking for strings. "What in the name of Keith Urban are you doing, Pierce?" She asks in a tone usually reserved for the times other people see her give nicotine patches to Lord Tubbington. "You look like you're about to fall over."

She grunts and wobbles slightly where she stands, forcing herself to take a few steps back on her hands before regaining balance. Everything is on fire, the careful zen she found herself shattered and quickly being replaced by a rushing head and the distinct feeling of numbness. Sweat drips from the tip of her nose and splatters; the lines beneath her hands cross with effort of keeping her eyes open. "Trying to see... how long I can hold a handstand. I have an idea f-for a new routine."

"And how long has it been?" She attempts to shrug but fails, knocking herself off-kilter again. It takes more energy to recover this time, elbows refusing to lock.

"Ever since lunch s-started?" If Brittany could see her face, she'd laugh from the stunned expression slowly making its way across the older coach's complexion.

"Blondie, that was twenty minutes ago! You're going to be dizzier than a baby bull at a rodeo." The dancer feels hands on her legs gently pushing her back down to the ground. She stumbles and tips over, awkwardly curling her shoulder to break the majority of her fall. Her body lands with a thump, limbs splayed out awkwardly as the tight lines of her abdomen strain and heave with each breath.

She takes in the older woman's face lined with amusement, curly hair wild from the sweeping winds outside that are battering the usually sweltering town. Though they couldn't be more different, this Coach has always reminded her of her own mother - kind eyes hidden under a sharp mind and strange dialect. "Hi!" Brittany beams, cheeks flushed a deep red and head pounding. Beiste laughs affectionately and pulls her up to a standing position, supporting her frame when the sudden change blacks out her vision.

"Come on, you haven't properly met the staff yet."

She raises an eyebrow and wipes at her face with her shirt, sweat staining her lightly bronzed skin. "It's only been five years since I graduated, Coach. I still know them."

This time a wicked grin, curling in at the edges. "But you were a student and weren't allowed to talk back to them. What do you think about giving that History teacher a piece of your mind for failing you all the time?"

"Sold."

.:-:.

It's awkward coming into the teacher's lounge - the last time she was here was five years ago when her and another Cheerio sneaked in and ravaged each other on the carefully sanitized tables - and having all the eyes drawn to her, so different from their soft bodies and faded minds. The spark of youth still runs thick through her, twenty two and just getting started; a foreign creature sent to explore the depths of ancient territory. Brittany flips the newly rebraided French plait over her shoulder and smiles brightly, hair still damp and clothes sticking to her recently washed skin. It slowly comes over each and every face as her memory clicks into place, and the results vary from confusion to amusement to disbelief.

"Brittany!" Emma is the first to jump up, grinning widely but refusing to hold out her hand before wiping it on a handtowel. The dancer feels bad for getting fluids over her tables, but really, it wasn't aimed directly at her. She just really wanted to give a facial. She gives a mischievous but pleased grin in return, waving at the redhead. "Oh my, I didn't know you were coming back! How was New York? I kept hearing about all your exploits at such a young age - simply remarkable! Are you working here for a while now?"

Beiste laughs at the rapid barrage of questions and steers Brittany through to a table near the back, plonking her down despite the tension she feels in the well-coiled muscles.

"Play nice, Blondie. They're _your_ colleagues for the next few years." She saunters off and the guidance counsellor is quick to join her, polishing her grapes before popping them into her mouth. They make easy conversation about everything under the sun; students, dancing, break-ups and make-ups, Broadway and world tours. Months upon months of living on a bus with only a duffle bag and a name on a map, crowded by dozens of other people whose bodies you know as well as your own.

_Well, almost_ she thinks, her dick twitching a little in agreement from under the tightness of her compression shorts. There had been certain things she had kept to herself, though Lady Gaga's grin and reassurance of "you were born this way, babe" will remain one of her favourite memories of all time.

A disruption on the edge of her peripheral vision and she receives an eyeful of curly hair and _vests_ coupled with a gleaming smile. Mr. Schue still looks exactly like she remembers him, plethora of grandfather clothes and plain ties causing her to bite her lip down in a mixture of annoyance and amusement. While she liked her Spanish - and Glee - teacher, he had assumed her stupid one too many times to secure a spot in her good books. "Brittany! How are you? I heard that Sue brought you in for her replacement, but I hadn't caught you at all."

In truth, she had been slinking about the hallways in an effort to go unnoticed. Walking through the place where she grew up, no matter how fond of it she had been, always solidified the fact that she wasn't one of them; content with the books and the papers and the screaming children who gathered nothing resembling respect to them. Math still made her feel dumb and the glaring contest she was currently holding with the obese History teacher across the room didn't manage to alleviate that dull ache. Everybody thought Brittany Pierce was stupid - but she understood the important things in life, of moving and living and loving until there was nothing else that remained.

"Yeah, she called me at like, four, on a Saturday morning. It took about five minutes before I figured out who it actually was. I don't even know how she got my number, I was in the Netherlands. It must have been her contacts with the Black Ops."

They both eye her for a minute, unsure whether to take her seriously. But her straight face didn't waver and Emma nods slowly, clapping her hands together to lift the silence. "Well then, isn't this great? You were always one of my favourite students, even if we did have to always talk about what to keep in your locker."

There's no carefully concealed emotion - something like pity - in her eyes like the rest of the faculty so she grins easily at the redhead, lounging back in her chair with an intricate dancer's grace. One arm slung over the back, foot tucked up in an awkward angle to anybody else, basketball shorts falling away slightly to reveal a beginning of taut thigh. "Couldn't help it, Mrs. P. The birds were always so cute."

She looks to Mr. Schuester just as his eyes flit away, busying themselves on the wall opposite himself. He was like a good portion of the world - meaningful but ignorant, always wanting to fix what he inherently destroyed. Her days at Glee Club were sometimes painful things, listening to him drone on about things like sacrifice and determination that he ultimately lacked to get out of this town. There was still an innocence about him the big city failed to crack, and Brittany isn't sure if it's endearing or irritating.

Turning, she could feel eyes on her back. Seeking but never finding, roaming along the covered expanse of her spine to send prickles down through her flesh. Brittany turns discreetly to scan the hallway, elegant neck arched like a swan's song as her cerulean blue flick over the crowds of teaming teenagers, a singular pulse that echoes in places like New York or Tokyo. She longs to get lost in it again, but simply the way she now carries herself screams of power and experience that very few here possess, an utmost confidence in the things she can do and the humility with which she can't.

Near the right there's a break in the sea of students, a wide berth given to the swath of red and white. Quinn fiddles with her lock while Santana leans boredly against the next, filing her nails and ponytail swinging with each turn of her head. Despite her projected nonchalance, her eyes slowly lock with Brittany's and a smirk crawls its way up onto her lips; sordid, smouldering - she can feel the sexual tension radiating off the caramel dipped skin from another room. Brittany tilts up her chin in silent challenge, languorously running her eyes from the spotless running shoes up miles of toned leg and sinfully short skirts, lingering on her powerful arms before tracing the patterns of her bones and meeting her stare again with a lazy smile. Santana's eyebrow floats to her hairline but her smile is unkind, all devious eyes with just a hint of a predatory grin underneath. She returns the gesture, and Brittany uncoils herself to smirk at the way her gaze lingers on the leg now bared for all to see, layered and tense with rippling muscle.

The bell hums loudly once, twice, and with an abrupt gesture that seems almost foreboding, Santana is swallowed by the seething crowd. Invisible but always watching - not before she mouths something that sends anticipated shivers crawling up into the blonde's skull, syllables caressed with firm lips and a heathen tongue.

_Soon._

"... so I thought that maybe you could pop into Glee Club, show the kids what it's all about." No response. She blinks carefully and turns her gaze to the two confused staff, eyes dark and pants a fraction too tight.

"What? I was watching the mermaid swim through the halls."

They share a worried glance but Mr. Schue continues, this time in a kinder tone that sets her teeth on edge, his fingers grazing the layers she holds up without trying to dig deeper. "Do you think you could come to Glee Club sometime, show them how it's done?" Her head wobbles on her neck absently, a slow smile spreading to replace the smirk from moment's ago.

"Sure. I loved Glee." He claps happily like a child given candy, but Emma intervenes before the palpable tension becomes too thick to cut without scars.

"So, do you have another number in store for the Cheerios?"

"Oh, yeah," this time it's a real grin, all shiny white teeth and rosy cheeks with cat-like eyes crinkling at the edges in anticipation. "it's gonna be brutal."

"Sue Sylvester brutal?"

"Worse."

.:-:.

It's silent on the pitch save for the murmured undercurrents of confused cheerleaders, watching their coach stretch and bend in ways that shouldn't be possible. They've learned that she's there to give guidance, formation - tools to expand and compound upon, but never showing the bend of her forearms or the strength of her legs. Brittany's hair absorbs the sun until she is its avatar, impossibly bright against the sea of deep green.

"Lopez," she grunts, laying herself down into the splits and reaching her arms forward. "push me." Santana trots over obediently, hesitant hands laying against the thick cords of her muscles. "Like, forward?" Brittany snorts and nods, exhaling a sharp breath.

"How far?"

"Until my chest touches the ground." The darker girl raises both eyebrows but nods, bracing her fingers into the rigid flesh and leaning slowly. Brittany blinks in discomfort the further she lowers, but the distracting warmth of Santana's palms slowly roaming her spine smooths away the pain. Once Santana's knees are touching either side of her hips and her forearms have settled against the blades of her shoulders, her chin has buried herself in the grass with only a soft twinge from her lower back.

Santana's breath rushes by the shell of her ear as her fingers map careful patterns in the fabric of her shirt, foreign names and places that connect like a map of the stars. Beneath her laboured breathing, Brittany can feel the pulse of the younger girl through her hands splayed like blankets but deadly as claws. The other girls think nothing of it but Quinn watches the way Santana bends to fit against Brittany's body with narrowed eyes, jaw twitching with something she can almost place a finger on. When Santana ducks her head down to whisper into their coach's ear and a laugh rumbles out from the center of her chest, it's painfully obvious the other girl wasn't joking about her conquest.

She's not sure if she's impressed or disgusted.

Even as Brittany's stomach impacts the ground, dark hands snake around her sides and play a xylophone against her ribs, feathery touches that could almost pass as accidental. They mender down to the curl of her hips before snaking back up, ponytail brushing the back of the blonde's neck. Her shudder runs through to the girl on top of her, but somehow she keeps the blush from staining more than her ears.

But two could play at that game; Brittany arches her back and feels Santana's breasts crush against her spine, the heat of her thighs thick against her legs. Her head tilts back until her cheek grazes the damp curve of her bent neck. "You think you're going to win?" Brittany murmurs, breath sweeping against tanned skin in a tropical gale. It's heavy in a way she can't fathom - it seeps into her bones like the sweetest of poisons. She tries, but it's difficult not to shiver against the sound.

"I've never lost." Santana replies, lips so close they brush, wet and ready, against the shell of Brittany's ear. The muscle of her throat is taut - she can see the butterfly pulse under her skin. It vibrates loud when she swallows, something like challenge lacing her tongue. "If anybody's going to win, it's going to be me." When she nudges the smaller girl away she rises from nothing, towering over her and striding back to the group. Santana sits for a moment and watches how Brittany gives a backwards glance, eyes dancing like she's suddenly found something she's wanted for a very long time.

.:-:.

It's silent for a whole other reason as she carefully flips herself into a handstand, back arcing and legs bending at the knees as she effortlessly turns herself to face her squad. Careful, deliberating - her breath sighs out of her as she curls in a little further and regains some semblance of balance. "These skirts are really short from down here."

Snickering rises from the masses and she smiles, flexing her arms once before she speaks. "How many of you have taken gymnastics?" Everybody raises their hands. Unsurprising. "For more than five years?" Most hands still stay up. Brittany has taken to slowly pacing around the cheerleaders, still upside-down, the careful placement of her hands quiet against the grass. They watch her thoughtless ease as she constantly shifts ever so slightly to remain lifted, braid hanging in the air behind her. "Hands down."

She licks her lips, blinks away the soft pounding inside her head. "Be honest. Who here is below one hundred and fifteen pounds?" Hesitation. She smiles sadly and shakes her head, closing her eyes as the world sways for a moment. "I'm not mad. I just need a lighter girl if I'm not going to throw out my back." A handful of the younger girls raise their hands, one or two seniors and a scattering of juniors. She nods thoughtfully. "And from all of you, how many have entered and won at least one recent gymnast competition?"

Only three hands remain. Good. She cuts her glance to Santana's raised arm but with a sly smirk, slides her eyes to the right. "Fabray, get over here."

White sneakers invade her vision and she trains her eyes upwards, grinning. "Back up a little, I don't want to see your goods." Quinn flushes crimson and the rest of the squad laugh, silenced by Brittany's stern look.

"This move here? Is all about control and stability. You need strength both on the bottom and on the top if you even _want_ it to look reasonable. I've done it before when on tour with Beyonce, but we trained for ages just to get it right. Just for that, I'm not expecting Quinn to get it perfect on the first try. Lopez, Stevenson, stand next to her. You're going to guide her into a handstand once I tell you to." The older woman rolls her shoulders slightly, turning so her back's facing the young blonde but keeping her head pulled up to see in front of her, shins now parallel with the ground. She bends even more, and some of the less experienced Cheerios start mumbling amongst themselves. Ever so slowly she drops to her forearms, counting patterns in the grass below her.

"You're going to use my knees to go into a handstand. You have to keep yourself rigid or else you'll knock me over. Santana, Ashley, you're going to hold her and make sure she doesn't tip over." She sees them grab the freshman around the waist, attentive and nervous. Her shirt falls forward but she barely notices it - Santana's eyes are glued to the sharp, unnatural curve of her powerful back.

Her thighs stir, beginning to tense in preparation. Quinn's hands are tight and unsure without a flat grip but the other two Cheerios hold her steady, ready to relieve tension when it starts to be too much. The chatter from the other girls becomes intense as Brittany lets out a ragged exhale and feels Quinn's weight slowly settle with the new role; her palms curve around her knees, body stiffening and straightening as she throws herself up into a handstand above her coach. Brittany winces at the tweak in her back but nods her encouragement.

"Okay, so n-now you have to use one leg for b-both your arms while I move the other." Her fingers are nervous, not wanting to put too much pressure on her shin. The pads dig into her skin but Brittany shakes her head, eyes serious. "It's okay, I won't drop you. I have s-strong legs." Quinn slowly shifts over until she's using only one leg to keep her balanced, ropes of muscle rock-solid underneath her hold. Coach Pierce brings her leg back and hooks her foot until the sole reaches the sky, top of her thigh now facing the ground with her legs parted in a strange, open pattern. "L-left hand over my foot." The cheerleader exhales sharply and moves again, grateful for her teammate's guiding hands. "Gonna... gonna move my other leg now."

She repeats the movement and Quinn scrambles for balance, just catching the other sole in time. They teeter for a moment and Brittany forces back the pain in her shoulders, rocking her hips until they realign with her body. "Slowly now..."

They lift and lever until, to the awe of the other cheerleaders, they've formed the equivalent of a human tower, legs straight and pointed to the sky. Brittany hisses once and thrusts her arms out, heaving herself from her forearms into a full handstand. She holds them for a moment, legs slightly parted and sweat dripping from the strong build of her jaw. Brittany's knees begin to bend, gentle enough that it won't knock Quinn's balance.

"Get behind her," she grunts, arms trembling. "Fabray, I'm going to throw you. Push off so you land on your back." A moment of hesitation before Brittany pistons her legs in the air, body snapping stiff as the weight over her is suddenly gone. Quinn flies back and lands roughly in the arms of the two other girls, eyes wide and stunned. Their coach lets herself down until she's splayed out in the grass, arms stretched above her head and chest heaving with each motion. Santana's glued to the abs that strain outwards with every breath, while the rest of the squad wonder how they're going to reach that amount of precision.

"God, I'm so out of shape."

.:-:.

Steam curls past the part of Santana's lips as she absently trails her arms down her stiff sides, working the kinks from her muscles that resulted from another ruthless practice of wind sprints and handsprings. After Coach Pierce demonstrated her strength (_lifting_ Fabray while in a handstand? how the fuck did she even think of that?) and quelled all doubts that she belonged in this school, it gave way to an exhausting session of running with weights attached to their backs. Twice, some girl had dropped one on her foot and had to be taken away - slippery with sweat and fatigue. The nurses knew by now not to ask questions and simply treated her battle wounds with care.

A memory of a whispered laugh and the honey-rubbed skin peppers with goosebumps, a wet cheek pressing light and hot against her neck. She had been _so close_, the defined chisel of her muscles underneath her touch - if she'd wanted, she could have sunk her nails and touched until blue eyes turned to slate, peeling apart the milky skin until she bared her all, mouth open into a silent sound, pretty pink lips mouthing silent words she longed to hear-

The current of her budding arousal cracks at Quinn's voice, rushing over like a bucket of icy water. Her eyes snap open to take in wet tile, water winding in a river as chaotic as her thoughts. She meets inquisitive eyebrows, darkened to a light brown from the shower. "Did you hear anything I just said, Satan?"

Santana snorts and grips her shampoo a bit tighter.

(She is fifteen - the world is only beginning to make sense to her. There are words in her head that aren't her own; deep, dark thoughts that speak of a softer body moulding to hers and fingers sinking deep to the center of her being.)

"Not really. All I could hear were whale sounds." Watching Brittany's body tense and heave has lit a fire in her belly, humming deeper and stronger the more she tries to push it away. It's been weeks of teasing touches and glances, charged words murmured under the guise of innocence. Every near-happening is beginning to eat away at her confidence, wondering if she's the hunter or the hunted. Quinn scowls and snatches the bottle from her hands, draining half the liquid in spite into her cupped palms. "Is there a reason you're hogging my shower, or did you just want to be close to me while I'm naked?"

Another blush stains the porcelain skin and she shuffles to the next nozzle, hair a white mess above her head. Pointedly, she averts her eyes from the sculpture of Santana's body - the soft curves of her youth giving away to bolder, expressive lines that paint her in a darkly seductive tone. Sultry in all the ways she's yet to control.

"Just bringing up the fact that Coach picked me instead of you for the demonstration. Your plan not working very well, Lopez?"

There's that bark of laughter again - unkind in the worst of ways, it sinks into the angry curl of her lips and lingers. "Oh, don't worry. It's working well enough to know that Coach has a rockin' set of abs underneath that shirt. Besides, Fabgay, I thought you weren't interested?"

Quinn huffs, but it comes out as an embarrassed squeak. "I'm not!"

"Sure. Well, if you have to know, it's gonna be soon." A salacious wink, flash of teeth bright against the dull backsplash. Santana remembers the musk of her sweat, rubbing against her own skin until she can smell her everywhere. "I can feel her already."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Good god this chapter is long. Sorry for my sporadic updating times, but I believe you'll find that it's worth the wait. As said previously, I still need a **beta** if anybody is willing.

Regardless, enjoy how Santana gets her first taste of Brittany's many surprises.

.:-:.

It's to an overexcited text that Brittany wakes the next week. Sun filters in through her flimsy blinds and paints dreams on the backs of her eyelids, whispers about a future and a garden with another indistinct figure. Their hands touch upon hers and she smiles, content with the fingers playing patterns against her porcelain skin even as her smile is like the warmth of the sun-

"Ow." She mumbles, lifting her eyes open a fraction and instantly regretting it. The dream shatters into a million fragments, the silken secrets disappearing from under her supple palms to be replaced by sheets of sandpaper in comparison. Her limbs are hopelessly tangled in the navy blankets, braid snaking its way along the curve of her back to rest haphazardly on the bed beside her. Sleepy blue peers out from under heavy lashes, still clinging to those last vestiges of nirvana. One hand flails out for the offending beep, clamping her lids firmly shut again only to lever one eye open and scan the horribly bright text against the dim room's background. Everything is fuzzy - she mashes one heel against her skull to clear away the haze and try again.

_u wanna come 2 glee club 2day? - _Curly

Curly? Who the hell is- oh, right.

"Tubbs, did you change the contacts on my phone again?" Her throat is scratchy with exhaustion, hearing only a muffled meow in response. She grumbles softly before getting up, eyes flicking down to the straining erection trying to push its way out of her small boxer shorts. Upon gentle contact with the shaft another dream sears its way into her memory, of dark skin and a sultry laugh with a face evading the clutches of her grasp. She shudders at the feeling of ghostly nails trailing along her spine, sneaking one hand down the band of her underwear, bottom lip taken between her teeth as her feet twitch in the air. Everything is slowly lighting on fire, the haze of sleep burned away by the soft arousal quickly hurtling speed - she is the thunderstorm that gathers slowly, raging for hours with its own pulse replacing your own.

Her fingers dance along the shaft but she has no time for foreplay - a sharp yank and her breath catches in her throat. Brittany spreads her legs lewdly until she's bared herself in the mirror to see. Her eyes hungrily watch the rapid pump of her fist along her length, a flush creeping up her pale chest and staining the curve of her jaw. The image blurs when her head tilts back and she closes her eyes, chasing the dream of flashing abs and smooth hair and charcoal eyes.

Time seems to fly by quickly and not at all, the only sound in the room the frantic slapping of flesh upon flesh. Brittany is close - she can feel it in her bones, a tremble she aches and begs to quell, never quite there but always upon the edge.

When she opens up from her daydream, Santana smirks down at her from vivid imagination.

"O-oh fu-" She lets out a choked cry and doesn't have time to reach for a tissue, cock already jumping to spray thick spurts of come into her enclosed fist. It seeps through her fingers and coats her palm, lodging under her nails even as she milks the last aftershocks from her long appendage. Blush now staining the plateaus of her face she chances a glance at the clock.

If she wasn't fucking late before.

Brittany opts for a crushingly tight pair of compression shorts and skintight jeans to match, never used to how, when put on, all evidence simply disappears. Of course, any tighter and she'll lose blood flow to her dick, but it's a price she's more than willing to pay.

Leaving her braid intact she rushes out the door, grinning sheepishly at a lounging Lord Tubbington II as she passes. It's become a sort of ritual to always be those _five minutes late_, but Figgins is so happy that Sue is gone - and with it her potential for amazing blackmail - that she could probably get away with doing anything at the school. (Or anyone, but she _so_ doesn't need to go there in these jeans.)

Almost immediately upon arriving she's whisked away by Emma - she's nervously spouting something off about the Cheerios and rates of insanity amongst young cheerleaders that Coach Sue had taught over the years. _More like rate of bitchiness_, she muses, watching Quinn twist her arm in a perfect flick as the slushie flies out of the cup and splatters on two figures in front of her. The boy - his mouth was pretty in the way all fragile things were pretty, cherry red from the slushie and hours of nervous nibbling - had managed to get his book up in front of his face, shielding him from the worst of the damage. He almost glided across the floor before being rudely interrupted, slowly blinking whirlwind eyes that shift rapid colours like he didn't know who he wanted to be. Brittany watches in curiosity as he simply shakes back his immaculately styled hair, glancing at his companion; who, by her facial expressions, is having a much harder time keeping her composure.

She furiously wipes the gunk from her eyes though her hair drips it hopelessly across her browning skin. Her little skirt is ruined from the deep blue as it creates gentle swirls on the tiles below her. Quinn looks at her impassively though there's a flicker of a smirk crawling along her lips, smug in the ways that Brittany was never able to be. Carefully excusing herself from Emma, she shoulders her way out of the counsellor's office.

Upon closer inspection the boy wasn't simply stiff, he was rigid.

(Brittany saw the sneaking bruises hidden under his collar, the way his eyes scanned the hallways for any type of threat, the way he curled into himself until his ribs could be stroking bony fingers down the inside of his spine. His lips split to utter a scathing retort that had Quinn's eyes flashing. She saw it all the way nobody else did, and as she made eye contact with him, he knew she saw it too.)

"Q, what are you doing?" She keeps her voice and expression neutral but the furrow of her brow gives her away. Quinn immediately turns, dropping the cup low as if to hide the evidence that's already clear as day. "Oh, um. Hi, Coach." The younger blonde mutters nervously. The halls are silent, nothing but the soft drip of the slushie sliding off skin penetrates their bubble.

Brittany levels an unimpressed eyebrow in her direction and watches her try not to wilt. Somewhere out of the corner of her eye, Porcelain purses his lips as if impressed. It's a first.

"It's a welcoming act to McKinley. All the freshmen go through it. I know it doesn't look very nice, but it's how the school works." Quinn is flawless in execution - eyes wide, smile demure, posture straight. If Brittany didn't hear the scoff sound, loud and agitated, she'd be inclined to believe her.

Also, the fact that the tradition of slushie throwing existed five years ago, and it was nowhere near friendly and welcoming.

"I'm going to stop you right there," she starts, voice level. "because that's not how things are going to be around here. Coach Sylvester might not have cared - and I admit, I've been on the giving end of one or two when I was here a few years ago - but I do. I'm not going to throw you into detention because the teachers at this school obviously don't know how to do their own damn jobs,"

A sharp intake of breath from the collective group. Brittany's eyes are like slate as she assess and calculates and chips away bit by bit. "so you're going to be looking forward to extra time on the field." She tries not to grin at Quinn's look of abject disappointment, but it's proving too difficult. "Now get to class. You're skipping as it is."

A mumbled "yes, Coach" before the squeak of sneakers fade in and out of their hearing.

They stand in silence for a moment, watching her go. Porcelain turns to look at her, baby-bird bones shifting until his almost-transperancy as he sizes her up with a wary but hopeful gaze. She finds herself wanting to lock him up in a shelf to keep him safe from harm with his big eyes and bigger mouth.

"That was impressive."

She shrugs softly, her dislike of conflict seeping down to her roots and lingering with the inherent need to _get away_ from the frozen puddle and eyes like ocean storms. "Not really. This happen often?" His expression says all she needs to know, and Brittany sighs.

"It's hard at this school. I thought it would be different once I got here, but it's just like a suped up version of middle school. Bigger bullies, bigger dreams, bigger problems."

Her fingers tug at her braid - nervous habit. Something she never seems to shake no matter how many people watch her create moving masterpieces. "I'll talk to them," she murmurs, noting how the girl hasn't even taken notice of her, furiously trying to claw the bits of ice from her hair. "no telling of how it'll do, but I'll try. Go get cleaned up and say you were with me."

They turn to leave, but Porcelain looks back briefly, silhouette willow-thin against the soft lighting framing his boyish face. "Thanks."

.:-:.

As soon as the bell rings, she's flanked by Mr. Schue, babbling excitedly about the club. She furrows her brows but attempts to listen, genuinely interested about meeting the kids. It's been a long time since she's been in the choir room. Though she's toured with countless people, the favourite stage she's ever touched was in New York when they were handed that first place trophy.

"They're such good kids," he was saying, gesticulating rapidly with his hands, fingers twitching and palms sliding against each other. It's almost a dance, their story he's trying to weave in crude motions that won't ever do them justice. "A bit on the wild side, but you knew about that, didn't you?" He still remembers the afterparty of the National's win, and Brittany swears her head pangs with phantom sympathy. She was sick for days. "Just... don't be deterred by Rachel. She's loud and extremely bossy."

The blonde arches an eyebrow, lips curling into a smirk that lowers her eyebrows and highlights her cheekbones. "I had to deal with Madonna when we were rehearsing for her big tour. Do you really think a couple of students will throw me?"

He doesn't have an answer (and if she's to be perfectly honest, the doubt on his face plants own in her mind) but she sweeps into the familiar room with all the grace she's learned over the years, eyes travelling to where the chairs are more worn and there are a few extra trophies lining the shelves. She spots her own and grins, the polished reflection beaming back at her. Brittany pointedly ignores all the stares drilling into her skull and trails her fingers along the piano, almost surprised at Brad still sitting there. They share a small smile and she ducks her head in greeting, turning only as Mr. Schue walks in. The place smells like paper and teenagers and _home_, something about it that settles neatly in the curl of her spine and blankets her in contentment. She's finally back where she belongs.

"Hey guys! I'm sorry I'm late. Before we start, I'd like to introduce you to our new addition. This is Brittany Pierce, and she's-"

"Mr. Schue, is she here to join the club?" Asks the short brunette from earlier, seemingly oblivious to the fact they've already met. "She seems a bit... old. Is she here for a victory lap?" Brittany's eyes narrow in irritation and she holds up a hand to silence the older teacher.

"No, actually." She comes close to snapping. Her eyes roam and meet the boy from earlier, an encouraging smile painted on his face. "I'm the new coach of the Cheerios. I was Head Cheerio along with Glee Club five years ago, and Mr. Schue asked me to pop up. And I'm only twenty two, thanks."

Movement from the front. "Hold up," says a black girl, her lips split into an easy smile. Brittany finds herself immediately taking to her. "you were in both? That's some crazy talk right there. Them Cheerios wouldn't dream of setting foot near us."

Murmurs of consent from the figures around them. Brittany finds it appalling that Glee Club has fallen so far out of favour in the years she'd been gone - a quick glance at her old teacher simply confirms her thoughts. From the back Porcelain speaks up - high and lilting with a touch of weariness that makes him seem much older than he is. "You never know. From what I've heard it's only recently the cheerleaders have really gone nuts. Coach Sylvester stopped reigning them in and they took advantage of that." Brittany stores that piece of information away for later interrogation, but Mr. Schuester interrupts before anybody else can question her prowess.

"Guys, I'll have you know that Ms. Pierce has been quite successful out in New York. She's toured with Beyonce, Shakira, Black Eyed Peas... even Lady Gaga, right?" She grins slightly, widening at the array of gasps around the room. "That's right. The queen herself."

"Which one?"

They all snicker to each other, and she takes the time to notice how they all weave in and out like a conscious being. Hands brush and legs touch and words overlap like the meaningless waves on the shore, a soothing rhythm flowing together as they laugh amongst themselves. This is the Glee Club she grew up with, a cohesive mass of teenagers so in tune with each other that expressions and explanations weren't needed to get their point across. Without disturbing them she wanders over to the band, sending a quick smile and a few fluttered eyelashes. Within seconds, they're picking up their instruments.

She sets herself up on the floor, grimaces as she notices, once again, the uncomfortable pressure in the crotch of her jeans. No splits for her this time.

"So you're a Glee Club." She offers, shaking out her arms. Multiple confused sets of heads turn to her, voices dying out as she pulls at her muscles and lengthens like a savage feline preparing to pounce. Her cat-like eyes flash in the lights, turning a brilliant blue before retreating back. "You walk the walk, but can you talk the talk?" A slow beat starts out on the drum and she waits, torso popping softly with the rhythm but nothing more. At their faces she arches an eyebrow.

It only takes a few seconds before the black girl - Mercedes, she's learned - throws her hands up. "Like hell we ain't gonna defend ourselves. Name it, Coach."

"Ring the Alarm." They grin at each other before sharp clapping begins to filter through the room, drum starting to take on a certain rhythm.

_"Ring the alarm _

_ I been through this too long _

_ But I'll be damned if I see another chick on your arm _

_ Won't you ring the alarm _

_ I been through this too long _

_ But I'll be damned if I see another chick on your arm!"_

Brittany puts her hands down on the piano, popping her legs and whipping once to face them as the song starts. Her braid flies about her face as her palms glide across smooth skin, dipping down to shake her ass to the hollers behind her. _This_ is her element, where everything but the beat and Mercedes' surprisingly commanding voice just filters out. She's a puppet on strings, going down on one knee to grind her hips forward and spring up into a high kick while she stalks forward with flames licking in her gaze. Some are simply watching with eyes wide open - Porcelain shimmies in his seat, and the tall Asian is doing a series of pop n' lock moves that catch her attention.

"_She gon' be rockin' chinchilla coats _

_ If I let you go _

_ Get in the house off the coast _

_ If I let you go _

_ She gon' take everything I own _

_ If I let you go _

_ I can't let you go, damn if I let you go"_

Her arms shoot out like she's dragging herself forward; legs wide set, she goes low again, thrusts her hips almost violently before jumping up to shuffle to her right, feet gliding across the tile. Brittany's muscles ripple as her legs crouch and extend, bringing them back to stomp on the ground even as her arms bend at the elbows and hit her chest twice. She ducks and weaves, wrists clasped behind her back when her shoulders jerk forward. The power in Mercedes' voice increases tenfold - she can feel it reverberating from her chest like all true things do, straight from the soul and out of her lips. One finger crooks and beckons to Dancing Asian. He doesn't even hesitate before flying to her side.

Together they go through surprisingly fast steps, pleased at how he's capable to keep up. Together they storm to the front, arms flying out as they grasp their heads, jerking this way and that before leaping up into the air with a crude spin. She pushes him and he falls away, rolling gracefully on the ground to flow back up like a raging river. Brittany doesn't let up - pushing, punching, kicking. He has that dancer's intuition and knows where she's going to land, blocking and catching and throwing to compensate for her violence.

Her chest pops and the vibration echoes to him, reigning him back beside her.

"_Tell me how should I feel _

_ When I know what I know _

_ And my female intuition tellin me you a dog_

_ People told me 'bout the flames _

_ I couldn't see through the smoke _

_ When I need answers, accusations _

_ What you mean you gon choke"_

He drops to his knees and Brittany tugs the scarf she'd been wearing taut around his neck - his fingers flail to it even as she dances above him. Nothing's choreographed (the best ones never are) but the way her muscles move in sync make it seem that way. Sweat shines on her skin but they all watch the two with rapt attention, backing the singer up when needed. Some in the hallway have slowed to stare at the beautiful blonde and her partner, spinning back up from his position on the floor to plant his palms over her abdomen and shove. She goes flying back but rolls once she hits the ground, catching the flicker of _sorry_ over his face with a shrug.

_"You can't stay, you gotta go _

_ Ain't no other chick spendin' your dough _

_ This is taking a toll, the way the story unfolds _

_ Not the picture perfect movie everyone would've saw"_

Not to be outdone, the blonde runs her hands up her body, fingers catching her shirt to reveal a teasing amount of skin before going into a brutal series of locking with him breezing around her frame. Hair stained and slick, she reaches out for his shoulders and he obliges, becoming a steady pillar when she rears up and scissors her legs in the air. Thanks to the uncomfortable twinge in her groin she doesn't go as high as she wants to, but the effect is achieved regardless when they hoot and cheer. He grins even as she uses her momentum to spin him towards her - for his defense, he takes the roll reversal in stride. They stalk towards the hallway for a moment before Brittany shoves hard at his chest - he collapses in on himself where she shuts the door with a solid thunk.

A moment of stunned silence before the choir room erupts in applause. Brittany wipes at her face with a large grin, letting in the Asian whose name she learns to be Mike. Thanking him and promising another duet, she spins to the kids. Her whole body thrums and flushes in the way only dancing makes her tingle, from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair, the rush that never ceases no matter how many times she does it. It's what defines her; every dip of her spine or brush of her hand is its own form.

"And that, boys and girls, is how it's _done_!"

.:-:.

The hallway is bright and painfully hot. Brittany's skin slicks; even after stepping in from the outside, the warmth here is heavier. It suffocates her with its girth.

There is a gentle pounding under her feet - a slow rhythm. For a moment she believes it to be the heartbeat of the earth, humming to her in this moment of serenity. She halts and shuffles her feet along the tile, ears straining for the sound. It's all silent save for the hypnotizing bass that reminds her of countless hours under thousands of different lights.

Like a siren's song, she follows.

Gradually, other things are made known to her. The quiet rustle of a snare drum and the twang of a guitar. A singer's voice sliding smoothly over indecipherable notes, cool and calming against the unbearable heat that's taken the now deserted school. She pulls her braid from her neck and creeps forward, feet flying over the hard floor with a quiet hush.

There's a figure in the training room, body taut and stiff as she holds herself up over a metal bar. Sweat runs in rivulets and stains her ebony hair but her palms don't slide, covered in chalk and white from strain. Her handstand is straight and true, but Brittany watches as she manages to curl in on herself until her feet hang over her vision.

(With all things, Santana lures her most when she doesn't try. In this moment, there's no mask holding her expressions. Simply the grimace of burning muscles and determination to do _better_.

Brittany understands.)

She glides silently into the room, sparing a short glance at the radio that croons to her. The booming is stronger now, shaking up to her knees and settling in her bones. Santana's hand goes to lift herself up to the next bar - Brittany sees frustration painted on her face when she's incapable of bringing herself up to the heights she needs. (Just like every kid in this godforsaken town.)

"Shift your weight further." Santana wobbles in surprise and the blonde rushes to catch her. The skin of her calves is sticky but silky smooth under her palms, warm like sunkissed honey. She feels powerful muscles shift under her long fingers, trembling slightly from exertion. Beautiful in every way.

"Sorry, Coach," she mumbles, voice deep and dark and catching. Her shirt rides up and skirt falls away, so deliciously prone for Brittany's eyes to devour. "Took me by surprise."

Brittany grins, adjusting her hold. Her nails brush along the inside of her knees and the shiver it elicits prompts her to repeat the action. If possible, the buzzing of the darker girl's skin increases to a steady hum. "I do that to people. What are you trying to do? School's way out."

She doesn't answer, simply shuffling her weight over to one side and moving her arms - Brittany smirks as the pads of her fingers start to burn patterns into her thighs and her biceps shudder in return. Santana rocks back and forth until she begins to straighten out again, prompting one hand to splay on the plains of her abdomen. A sharp intake of breath as her nails rest lightly on the waistband of her Cheerios skirts; the rest of her inhale is drowned out by a swell in the music. Brittany presses hard, feels the twitching muscles play against her palm. She absently wonders what they'd feel like free of confining cotton.

"Quinn's not the only one who has tricks up her sleeve." Santana grunts, trying again to reach for the bar in front of her. She is breathless and breathtaking - the scent of sweat and chalk mixes in with cinnamon and something else Brittany can't decipher. She traces the strength of her cheekbones and the starkness of her muscles, beckoning her forward though they're already pressed so close together. There's a flash of a smirk on the younger girl's face, disappearing once Brittany presses a shoulder dangerously close to her core and wraps a long arm around her waist.

"Lift yourself up," Brittany murmurs, sweet scent of her breath brushing against Santana's exposed skin. "I've got you. You won't fall." A shaky hand reaches up before securing the bar above her, fingers now slippery with sweat. Her spine slithers even as her other hand pushes off, catching the metal with a muffled hiss of victory. She stands tall, proud; Brittany watches her eyes gleam with a soft smile even as she lets her down.

Right side up, Santana's even more striking. Her face is flushed from exertion but she glows from every nerve, sticky with sweat and damp hair turning into careful waves where the ponytail has failed. She wipes a minutely trembling hand over her brow and gives a silent smile in thanks (no teeth this time, just firm lips and indents in her caramel cheeks) as her coach hands over a water bottle. Her throat shudders when she swallows, rivulets of water slipping across her jaw from when the suction of her mouth opens to pull in oxygen. Brittany sits on the bench press, legs split open around the seat and leaning back on her hands. Santana pauses and eyes her with something that makes the pit of her stomach stir in excitement.

"What were you doing?" She shrugs, the murmur of the radio and crinkle of the water bottle the only thing breaking the charged silence, shoulders rising and falling in a show of nonchalance. The cheerleader arches her neck, drawing a red towel along her skin. "Practicing."

"For?"

She smirks then; eyebrows drawing in and eyes flashing, predatory, but this time in the _best_ of ways. "I can do it better than her." There's no need to ask who _her_ is, a flash of blonde hair in her mind's eye that's quickly obliterated as Santana sways towards her, gaze dark and probing. There's a jump in Brittany's abdomen - an erection in these jeans means nothing but pain, but the way Santana's looking at her gives her little choice. "I can do a lot of things better than her, you know." She purrs, dropping down to her knees between Brittany's spread thighs. Her knuckles grip the bench until they turn white.

"Santana, wh-"

"But I'd need some extra practice. Just to be on the _safe_ side."

Brittany opens her mouth, but Santana like this, crouched and sultry with her fingers playing patterns on the denim of her thighs steals the breath from her. When her body lurches it's without conscious thought, hands going to the back of her neck before leaning down to bring her into a bruising kiss.

It's all teeth and wet tongue - sloppy but excited as she nibbles on Santana's puffy lower lip. She tastes of salt and sweetness, a medley of confusing senses, the silk of her voice swallowed by Brittany's seeking mouth. Santana presses into her, hands gripping the base of her waist even as her tongue flashes out to slide against her own and she feels long fingers pulling at her ponytail. Raven hair spills out over her shoulders, sticking to her neck and along her cheek but she simply opens her lips at the blonde's request, shuddering as a searing tongue runs teasingly along the roof of her mouth.

Santana had always wondered why her body would ignite from another girl's touch in a way that a boy could never stroke her, but all those fires are merely embers compared to what Brittany's doing to her. The hand around her neck has migrated to her spine, strong fingertips digging into her back in an effort to draw her closer. Everything is too loud but not enough at once - when the blonde licks a stripe of liquid heat from the hinge of her jaw to her chin, her hands scrabble for the girl's zipper before she loses control.

Yet that action makes the writhing body freeze under her, hands tightening in warning. Santana pauses and looks up curiously. The blue has almost been swallowed by a deeper colour, clashing and whirling into a thundercloud about to break. It shoots a violent shock of arousal straight to her core, and her hips gyrate, finding nothing but thin air. The whimper she makes is swallowed by her own throat, but Brittany looks oddly serious.

"Santana, I..." Words fail her as the younger girl looks up, lips swollen and shiny. Her eyebrows raise at her coach's expression, caught between hesitation and lust. Hair is scattered about her shoulders, chest heaving with the burning between her legs - something, _anything_ to quell the ache. She's never done this before, but beginner's luck is something Santana knows well.

"You want it too." She's surprised at how low her voice has dipped, coated in velvet and so very dark. It makes Brittany's eyes flash in arousal, so she presses on. "I know you do, I can feel it."

And see it; her skin is tainted red and breaks out into a thin sheen. Pink lips work soundlessly to fish out the words that refuse to come forth.

"I... I'm different than other girls." Santana narrows her eyes in confusion, fingers toying with the button of her jeans. Despite the urge to simply ignore all warnings she slows, meeting the blonde's gaze with curiosity. "Different?" Brittany hums softly but her hips vibrate under Santana's ministrations. She offers no more hints so the younger girl simply takes a deep breath and pops the button; the drag of the zipper deafening against the room that's now fallen silent save from twin pants filling the air with steam.

Her hands stutter at the tight black fabric that clings to Brittany's skin, almost seeming to hug straight to the bone. As her fingers trace the cool fabric her palms moves to flatten against her center, trembling slightly with excitement.

There's something there.

She halts in alarm, trying to come to terms with the large bulge pressing against her hand. The darker girl glances up to her coach, licking her lips when she receives a silent, inquisitive stare in return. "I-is that...?" She trails off when Brittany looks away, the first beginnings of insecurity attempting to creep into her face.

"I told you I was different." She murmurs quietly. Her voice, still laden with arousal, is subdued now, almost resigned. It seems that it's happened before.

Santana hesitates before leaning up, drawing Brittany's face back to her. She smiles despite herself at the furrow in fair eyebrows, shiny teeth biting down on a lower lip. The kiss this time is gentler, smoother; Santana teases the stress from her muscles until she's once again lax and hungry in her hands. "You're still way hot."

Brittany grins and this time it's all shiny teeth and shimmering eyes, braid tickling Santana's face with an expression that makes her want to sit and watch for _hours._ Santana licks her way down her neck and trails her face against the thin shirt, pushing the fabric to bathe her chiseled stomach. Upon closer inspection everything about Brittany is defined - her muscles are cut seemingly from stone when she flexes in anticipation. Lithe fingers cup the still growing bulge and the vibration of her moan goes straight to her center.

"That must hurt."

"Like a bitch."

She hooks around the compression shorts and tugs slowly, revealing inch upon inch of creamy skin. Santana rubs at the angry red scores along her waistline but smirks as a narrow strip of blond peeks out from underneath. A final yank and Brittany's appendage is exposed to the open air; her sharp intake of breath drowned by the relieved hiss from above.

Santana isn't any good at math, but when her hand hesitantly reaches out to circle the flushed cock, she reasons it must only look so large because of how Brittany's body is cut. It twitches against her stomach and the soft almost-whimpers from her coach make her swallow, eyes dipping into utmost darkness. Her thumb glides over the weeping head, sticky and gleaming from precum, and when she dips into the slit there's a positively filthy moan that has her thighs slamming together.

The blonde watches her, legs spread and mouth open, a flush working its way through her fair cheeks. Santana pushes one hand up her shirt to trail seeking fingers along her ribs, plucking her strings until she cups a small breast from under her bra.

(Her dreams come back to her. The weight of another woman in her palms, finding for the first time the salty tang of their flesh. It's of the sweetest poisons and addicting to the point where she never wants to let go.)

"God, you're so hot." Santana mumbles as she starts to slide her fist up and down the shaft. Brittany's hips twitch in rhythm as she leans further back, allowing Santana's fingers to shift her bra aside and take hold of a hard nipple. She clumsily swipes the pad of her thumb along the small nub, fingers splaying out over the side of her chest even as her left hand moves with much more finesse. Brittany's head tilts back to trace patterns in the ceiling with Santana's coaxing hands burning away all of her previous thoughts.

The blonde is warm in her hand - she can feel her heartbeat pulse through her dick as she strokes it long and firm. Every time she reaches the top she twists at the head, earning breathless groans from the form above. Constant streams of sticky liquid ensures no halting, but Santana wants more. The slap of her fist against the base of Brittany's pelvis makes her own warmth leak down her thighs, begging her to do _something_. While her coach is distracted, she tentatively leans forward and brushes her tongue against the tip of her cock.

The effect is instantaneous and desirable. Brittany jumps and snaps her head down to look, one hand reaching out to bury her fingers in sweaty locks. Santana peers up at her through her lashes, a sly smile when her lips pop open to take in the leaking head in her mouth. She's bathed in attention from the darker girl's skillful tongue and the quiet sounds leaving her mouth have them both aching for more.

Perhaps it's the forbidden aspect of the situation, doing things shunned by society, but when Santana slides down a few more inches on her shaft she feels herself swell like never before. The way she has to snap her mouth open simply to take in all of her sends shudders running from the root of her head down to the base of her spine, tingling, setting every nerve into flame. It's like the rush she gets when she's dancing only ten times as strong, a tango they both know how to dance. Strings of saliva run down her length and get lost in the wispy hairs of her pelvis - Santana's hand goes to cup her from underneath but pauses in confusion.

"Where are your balls?" She asks, mouth unsealing with an obscene pop. Brittany yanks her into another filthy kiss, groaning at the mix of both of them lingering inside her mouth. They clash and battle - Santana sucks Brittany's lower lip into her mouth and scrapes seeking teeth along the sensitive inside.

"In here." She grunts, syllables turning into a hiss as the head of black hair dips down to take her into her mouth again. Her hand finds Santana's to press against her abdomen, a pair of testicles hidden inside. The younger girl hums in acknowledgement and the resulting shockwave has the blonde jerking into her mouth.

"If you keep d-doing that I'm gonna cum," she warns, eyes rolling back with the sensation of a velvet tongue dragging along the underside of her cock. Santana looks positively wicked from her position, lips curving into a smile around Brittany's throbbing dick. Her face shines and both thighs are messy with fluids as she takes her almost to the hilt, the head of her cock pressing uncomfortably against her throat. Determined, she worms her hands around thin hips and tries to relax, inching forward and hollowing her cheeks. Above her Brittany groans, fisting her hair and urging her onwards.

She catches a glimpse of them in the mirror - her buried between a pair of denim-clad thighs, bobbing up and down as there's a repeated glimpse of a swollen cock before it disappears into her pursed lips. Brittany's mouth is wide open, hips jumping into her hot mouth every time she pulls away. She's completely lost herself in the sensations, each rise and fall of her chest growing more and more erratic the closer she steps towards the edge. Santana watches, mesmerized, starting a low hum from the center of her chest that explodes outwards into her throat that Brittany feels down to her very bones.

There's a trembling she feels against the tight muscles that cause her to slow her motions, lips firmly sealed even as the first spurt hits her tongue. Salty and quietly bitter, her thumbs draw soothing patterns as her coach cries out and pumps forward. Her eyes are scrunched closed and Santana thinks _beautiful_ before she's able to stop it, frame shuddering as the streams slowly coat her throat and die off. Here, hazy blue peeking out from long, blonde lashes, she's struck with a sort of contentment that never happens until she's the one relishing her post orgasmic bliss.

Brittany smiles and pulls her in for a lazy kiss, tongue wicking away the rivulets of white that had escaped the corners of Santana's mouth. She crawls into her lap, ignoring the damp, softening cock brushing her inner thigh and wonders absently why she doesn't feel the need to take a shower. Usually she feels dirty after blowjobs - the sweaty hands grabbing her hair, the overpowering scent of bodyspray suffocating her nose. But Brittany smells of sweat and vanilla and makes her feel filthy for another thrilling reason.

They separate after a few moments and her coach brushes back a lock of her hair. Her flush is beginning to recede, colour bleeding out of those rusty cheeks even as her lips quirk up into an impish grin. "I think you've had enough practice before I came along."

Santana laughs and the sound is full and rich, spilling from her wet lips before she can stop it. "It's always better to be on the top of your game. Think you'll let me work some more?"

"Wouldn't have it any other way."


End file.
